


Redbeard and Yellow Jack

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Bathing, Crying, Cuddling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Infantilism, Little Sherlock, More comfort than hurt, Non-Sexual Age Play, Platonic Cuddling, Post-The Sign of Three, little!sherlock, non sexual infantilism, papa!Lestrade, pull ups, stuffed animals, training pants, washing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 18:06:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2397824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone was watching when Sherlock left the wedding that night; someone who cares enough to make sure that Sherlock knows he's not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Redbeard and Yellow Jack

**Author's Note:**

> I love age play fics, obviously, but one thing I noticed about the ones in the Sherlock fandom is that they tended to be about Sherlock and John. Which is lovely, obviously, but I also adore Papa!Lestrade and I couldn't get this idea out of my head.

It was a warm, almost balmy night in the middle of May when Greg stood by and, along with numerous other guests, watched Sherlock break his own heart. He was standing with Molly and her date near the side of the room when Sherlock made his toast to _three_ Watsons. Molly gasped audibly, her small hand flying up to cover her mouth in astonishment. Greg tensed a bit, watching as Sherlock jumped down off the stage and spoke to John and Mary for a few minutes. Any other onlookers would have probably thought he was happily congratulating the new husband and wife on their wedding and surprise.

Greg knew better, and he wasn't surprised in the slightest when, after the bride and groom began their next dance, Sherlock donned his coat and quickly walked out of the room. He blindly thrust his drink at Molly's date, barely waiting for the young man to grab it before he followed, pushing his way through the crowd a little more rudely than normal. But the celebrating people who he shoved aside would be fine, whereas he was 100% positive that Sherlock was on the edge of a complete meltdown.

He stepped outside and looked around, eyes scanning the garden intently. It wasn't that difficult to spot Sherlock. He was already on the pavement, and he was looking around like he wasn't sure what he was going to do next. Greg jogged over to him, a little relieved that Sherlock didn't take off running when he spotted him. It wouldn't be the first time that he'd had to chase the detective and it probably wouldn't have been the last, but he'd had a hard enough time squeezing into his dress trousers without adding the stress of running on the button and zip.

Sherlock straightened upright when Greg got close, his shoulders drawing together defensively. It had the unique reaction of making him seem both smaller and taller all at the same time. He said, "I'm fine, Lestrade. There was no need for you to leave the party."

"Maybe I wanted to leave," Greg said calmly, not at all bothered by the way Sherlock rolled his eyes in disbelief. "And besides, you can say whatever you want. That -" he jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the building "- was not _fine_. In fact, if you looked the opposite of the word fine up in the dictionary, I'm pretty sure there would be a description of what just happened."

With a faint huff of derision, Sherlock folded his arms and looked away. The lighting wasn't very good, and in addition to his hunched shoulders and the pallor of his face, the childish pouting only served to make him seem that much younger. Greg experienced the almost painful need to gather Sherlock into his arms and make sure that nothing could ever hurt him again. Not for the first time that night, he was beginning to realize that might actually be necessary. 

Things had been different since John Watson came into their lives, but before that Sherlock had possessed a second coping method when it came to his addiction. Cases were all well and good, but even Sherlock grew exhausted after a certain point. After John moved in, it seemed to be enough for him to have a quiet night at home with his flatmate. He would work on his experiments while John read the journal or watched the telly, and since Sherlock never seemed to need this - that seemed to be enough - Greg hadn't brought it up.

Now, he leaned in closer. Watching Sherlock's closed expression carefully, he murmured, "Redbeard."

Sherlock stiffened, his eyes going wide, and there was no way for him to cover up that little flash of longing before Greg caught sight of it. Greg felt equal parts saddened and pleased. On the one hand, he had to admit that he had missed this. It was more about Sherlock than him, which was why he had never brought it up after Sherlock stopped needing it, but he enjoyed the connection that a scene afforded them. He liked knowing that he could care for Sherlock and make a difference in his life, one that was about more than just providing access to cases.

But knowing that Sherlock needed this now, that if Greg weren't here to provide it he might very well turn to drugs... It was enough to make him feel sick. Gently, he reached out and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's bony wrist. Everything they needed was back at his flat, stored away in the spare bedroom, because even after Sherlock's death Greg didn't have the heart to get rid of it. And now he was relieved for the sentimentality that had kept him from throwing away those cherished possessions.

"Come on, sunshine," he said softly, still keeping his voice pitched low even though there was no chance of anyone overhearing them. "You don't have to go back home tonight by yourself. Why don't you come home with me instead? We'll have a lovely warm bath and we'll watch a movie together."

For a very long moment there was no response, and Greg wondered whether he'd made a miscalculation. Maybe he should've accompanied Sherlock back to Baker Street and made the suggestion there. Or maybe, he speculated with a sinking feeling, he shouldn't have made it at all. After all, Sherlock had been gone for two years. It had been close to three and a half, nearly four years, since they'd done this. Both of them had changed a great deal in that time, and maybe this wasn't what Sherlock needed anymore.

But then Sherlock turned to him and parted his lips and said two words in a childish whisper. "Okay, Daddy."

Greg hid his surprise as best he could, covering it with a warm smile. "This way, I brought my car so I can drive us both home." He put a hand to the small of Sherlock's back and gently directed him towards the parking lot. Inwardly, his thoughts were conflicted. _Daddy_. He could count on one hand the amount of times Sherlock had used that name over the years. Usually it was "Papa" or, on the rare occasion he was feeling a little older, "Dad".

But Daddy? It suggested that Sherlock had slipped further than ever, and while Greg didn't mind, he was worried about what that meant for his little boy. The last time Sherlock had called him Daddy, it was because he'd been shot on a case and Greg had volunteered to take care of him until he healed enough to be on his own. The constant care had left Sherlock in the mindset of a toddler, probably no older than twenty-four to thirty months old, a far cry from his usual age of five.

He unlocked his car and helped Sherlock into the passenger's seat, leaning across and doing up the seatbelt himself when Sherlock made no attempt. As he walked around to his own side, he cursed himself. Sherlock had been alone in 221b for weeks, but Greg hadn't approached him. He'd foolishly believed that Sherlock would let him know if he needed this - because towards the end, just before John's arrival, Sherlock had. But in the beginning, it was Greg who offered every single time, usually when there was enough evidence to prove that Sherlock needed it even though he was too shy or too stubborn to ask.

He got into the driver's side and glanced over at Sherlock as he started the car. The detective was staring straight ahead, seemingly lost to his own thoughts. That wasn't good. The whole point was to take Sherlock _out_ of his head for a while and give that massive brain a chance to rest. God knew that by now, Sherlock probably needed it desperately. He drove as quickly as he dared, not willing to be pulled over for speeding when Sherlock was so fragile but knowing that the sooner they began, the better.

Sherlock was too tall and too heavy to be carried for any distance, so he walked up the stairs to Greg's flat on his own. Greg followed right behind him, ushering him into the flat as though Sherlock was going to change his mind at the last minute. With the door safely shut, he stripped his jacket and shoes off and turned to face Sherlock. His heart ached at seeing the expression on Sherlock's face, a strange combination of blank and lost that meant the man was struggling with how to do this again and how much he probably needed it.

"You want a bath?" Greg said, deciding it was best to just jump right into it. Giving Sherlock time to argue had never gone over well; at any age, he responded best to guidelines and structure so long as they were not too strict. Knowing what he had to do left him little time to worry about everything else.

With that in mind, he steered Sherlock down the hall and into the bathroom. He started the water, adding bubbles automatically, before returning to Sherlock. Greg was careful as he removed the two coats and the shirt underneath, peeling away the layers both physical and emotional, until trembling fingers came up to grasp his hands right before he would've lifted the vest over Sherlock's head. He looked into Sherlock's glossy eyes and mustered up a comforting smile.

"It's okay, sweetheart."

"I... My back," Sherlock mumbled.

"It's okay," Greg repeated, and this time Sherlock let him remove the last piece of clothing. He moved on to the trousers and the boxers underneath, sliding them down Sherlock's legs and helping him to step out of them. Sherlock turned to step into the bath and Greg understood his hesitation in a rush of rage.

Sherlock had always had plenty of scars, but his time away had afforded him several new ones. And while Greg had tried to prepare himself for that, he still wasn't entirely ready for the reality of the whipping marks that littered Sherlock's back from his shoulders to the base of his spine. Some of them looked so recent that Greg was scared to touch him for fear of hurting him. He sincerely hoped that Mycroft had made _someone_ pay for that kind of damage. 

It took effort to make himself put that aside, but Sherlock was still the important thing. He could yell at Mycroft later. Greg started to kneel beside the bathtub, pushing the sleeves of his shirt up automatically, and then paused. "Oh damn. I forgot to grab your things. Come with me and you can pick out some toys to play with, okay?"

Pouting, but intrigued enough at the mention of toys not to protest, Sherlock stepped back out of the tub. Only his feet were wet and Greg didn't care enough about the carpet to dry them. He led Sherlock down to the bedroom and was pleased to see the box of toys right on top of the stack. He plunked it down in front of Sherlock, trusting him to dig up a few toys to play with in the bath, and then continued searching for the rest of what he thought they might need tonight. Fortunately it didn't take him very long to find the right box.

When he turned around, Sherlock was sitting on the floor and playing with a pink rubber duck. Greg smiled and urged him to stand, herding him right back to the tub. Sherlock clutched his pink duck the whole way, and, when he was seated in the water, promptly became oblivious to anything else. That was the way he'd always been, no matter how old he was: once something caught his fancy, he didn't care what else was going on. His focus on the pink duck made it a lot easier to get him bathed, because Sherlock had never particularly enjoyed bath time.

"All clean now, eh?" Greg murmured, dipping a cup in the water and giving Sherlock's hair one last rinse. With his hair plastered to his head, Sherlock looked adorable. He set the cup aside and sighed, just watching as Sherlock pushed the duck under water and made it squeak. There was a kind of peace in moments like these that Greg had never been able to find anywhere else.

He almost hated to make Sherlock get out, but the water was growing tepid and it wouldn't be long before Sherlock got cold. Greg sat back on his heels and stood up, grabbing a towel. Sherlock looked up at him, eyes wide and trusting, and stood up obediently when Greg held the towel out. He wrapped it around Sherlock's slender shoulders, taking care not to rub against the scars on Sherlock's back. The last thing he wanted to do was cause Sherlock anymore pain.

"Daddy, I'm hungry," Sherlock said as Greg took his hand, helping him to step out onto the floor.

Greg wasn't surprised. He was almost positive that Sherlock had eaten next to nothing at the wedding. "Let's get dressed and then we'll have a snack, okay?"

Dragging his lower lip between his teeth, Sherlock nodded silently. Greg smiled warmly and took another towel so that he could dry Sherlock off. He made sure to get every inch of his little boy, from in between his toes - which made Sherlock squirm and giggle - to the tips of his curling hair. Sherlock submitted to the drying without complaint, though it didn't escape Greg's notice that he tensed a little when Greg moved behind him to dry his back. It was hard to tell whether his reaction was from fear, embarrassment, pain or a mixture.

"Almost done. You're doing so well for me, baby. Daddy's very proud of you," he murmured, setting the towel aside to be cleaned up later. He rummaged through the pile of things he'd taken from the spare bedroom and pulled out the one thing he knew he was going to get an argument on. And right away, the second he saw what Greg was holding, Sherlock started to whine.

"No, Daddy!"

"Sherlock -"

"I'm a big boy, I don't need those!"

"You're very little right now," Greg said gently. "And you know it's okay for little boys to have accidents. Daddy wouldn't get angry with you about that. But I think it's best that you wear them just in case." This might have been the littlest he'd ever seen Sherlock. It was hard to accurately judge sometimes. He held up the training pants. They were white and patterned with blue and green stars, planets and meteors that were supposed to glow in the dark.

"I don't wanna." Tears were forming in Sherlock's eyes and he crossed his arms. "You can't make me! I don't need them. I'm a _big_ boy!"

"Sherlock Holmes, this is not up for debate. If you don't put your training pants on in the next ten seconds, Daddy's going to give you a time out," Greg told him firmly, well aware that part of the reason Sherlock was whining was because he was overtired and hungry. 

He refused to feel guilty when a tear rolled down Sherlock's cheek, holding firm. They'd only ever used the training pants once, that time Sherlock was recuperating from being shot and couldn't always make it to the loo in time. And chances were Sherlock wouldn't actually wee in them. But Greg didn't want to take the risk. He knew that big Sherlock would feel safer once he was wearing them, and at least Greg wasn't telling him to lie down so that a nappy could be put on - although if they continued in this vein, he had to wonder if they would someday arrive there.

"You're mean," Sherlock said, scowling as another tear ran down his cheek, but he reluctantly stuck one foot out. Greg held the training pants out so that he could put his foot down and then lift the other one, then slid them up Sherlock's legs. 

"I know I am. But you're my good boy anyway aren't you?" Greg ruffled his hair, prompting another wet giggle, and slipped a t-shirt with a picture of a dinosaur on the front over his head. Sherlock lifted his arms, looking down at the dinosaur in admiration as it was tugged down over his chest and belly. He traced the bumps on the dinosaur's back with one finger.

"I missed my dinosaur, Daddy."

Greg glanced up at him as he pulled Sherlock's pyjama bottoms up. His throat felt tight when he saw the very sad look on Sherlock's face, and as he stood, he couldn't resist pulling Sherlock into a hug. "I know you did, sweetheart."

With another damp sniff, Sherlock asked, "Where's Yellow Jack?"

"Right here." Glad for his forethought, Greg grabbed the last item he'd taken from the spare bedroom and held it up: a big yellow bee that had soft, satiny white wings and a fuzzy, black-striped butt. Named after 'Calico Jack', the famous pirate, a black pirate's hat had been strapped onto its head. Sherlock latched onto it greedily, like he was afraid that it was going to be taken away, and immediately stuck the tip of one of the wings into his mouth. He sucked, his cheeks hollowing.

"That a sign you're hungry?" Greg asked, amused. He wrapped an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and guided him out into the hall and down into the kitchen. He sat Sherlock down at the table and opened up the refrigerator. He didn't have much in terms of food - they'd have to go grocery shopping tomorrow if Sherlock woke up still feeling little - but he had a couple of apples and some crackers. That would do for a late night snack. He sliced the apples up quickly and set them and the crackers out, along with juice in a little cup.

But now that he had food in front of him, Sherlock didn't seem very hungry. He picked at the apple slices, pushing them around his plate and only occasionally eating something. Greg sat down across from him, watching and wondering whether it would be worth the effort of making Sherlock eat something. He decided to remain quiet so long as Sherlock cleared at least half the plate. When Sherlock was little, the art of picking battles became even more important.

"What do I do now?"

The question was spoken so quietly that for a split second Greg wondered if he had misheard. "What?"

"I don't know what to do." Sherlock was still staring at his plate. He clutched his bee in one sticky hand. His eyes, when he looked up, were bright with tears. "No one cares about me anymore."

"Oh, sweetheart. That's not true."

"Yes it is. They all moved on. They all l-left m-me." His lower lip trembled as he stuttered over his words, and then Sherlock started to sob. "N-no o-on-ne c-c-cares!"

Greg was out of his seat like a shot. Sherlock collapsed against him as soon as he was within distance, sobbing like his poor little heart was breaking, and all Greg could do was rub his back and whisper to him that he was loved very much. But he wasn't even sure that the words were getting through: Sherlock was crying so hard that his wails were the only audible sounds.

It was breaking Greg's heart. He'd wondered what it had been like for Sherlock to leave and traverse the world for two years while everyone he knew moved on with their lives. It begged the question of just what had been worse, being gone or coming back, and he knew now that the trauma of what Sherlock had endured went so much deeper than he'd thought. Sherlock had _never_ been this upset before and it was a little frightening to contemplate how long this breakdown had to have been building.

It was terrifying to think about what Sherlock might have been driven to had he gone back to 221b alone.

He stood there for a very long time while Sherlock cried into his chest, until a lack of sleep and food started to overpower him and the tears began to slow. Greg half-carried him into the bedroom and helped him to lay down on the bed, figuring that it was just as well that the spare bedroom wasn't set up because there was no way Sherlock would be able to sleep alone tonight. As it was, the second Greg's hands dropped away, Sherlock's eyes opened with an expression of utter terror.

"Please, Daddy," he begged. "Please d-don't leave me."

"I will never leave you," Greg said instantly, looking deeply into those swimming eyes. "I love you so much, sunshine. I'm just going to get ready for bed. I'll be in view of you the whole time, okay?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, more tears slipping down his cheeks. Greg hated to leave him, but he was relieved that at least the bedroom had a direct view to the kitchen. It meant he could run back and stick the apple slices in the refrigerator and box up the crackers. He grabbed Sherlock's juice and returned to the bedroom, where he hastily changed into his pyjamas. 

"Here, have some juice," he said, lifting Sherlock with an arm around trembling shoulders. He figured that just this once, it would be okay to let Sherlock go to sleep without brushing his teeth. He stroked Sherlock's damp hair as the little boy sipped, his noisy breaths and sniffles indicating that he was still pretty upset.

When he was finished with the juice, Sherlock curled up in Greg's lap and pressed his tear-streaked face to Greg's tummy. He wrapped one arm around Greg's waist and started sucking on Yellow Jack's satin wing again. His shaky words were muffled. "Don't leave me, Daddy."

"I won't," Greg promised, finally able to shed some tears of his own now that Sherlock's face was hidden. He had no idea what to do or how to fix this, but he would _never_ leave Sherlock. "I promise you. Daddy's going to be right here when you wake up, and I'll be here for as long as you need me."

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/).


End file.
